003-06

It touched me.
It marked me.
It worked its way through me.
But it was never truly mine.

It came from elsewhere,
from older wounds,
from borrowed fire,
from rooms I did not build.

I do not deny it.
I do not feed it.
I do not carry it
as if it were my name.

Over black.
Not against it.
Not beneath it.
Over black.

No whitewashing.
No excuse.
No return.
No further use.

I learned from it.
That much is true.
But what it taught me
does not belong to it.

It passed through me,
left its mark,
then lost its right
to speak inside my mouth.

I will not fight it.
I will not serve it.
I will not give it
one more living room.

Over black.
Not against it.
Not beneath it.
Over black.

Archived.
Not erased.
No longer wired.
No longer raised.

No dragged-through fear.
No old violence
speaking here.

What entered late
from older harm
will not be housed
inside my arms.

It was carried in
from many places.
Fear.
Shame.
Old hands.
Old traces.

I saw enough.
I named the pattern.
I owe it nothing
after that.

Over black.
Closed without hatred.
Over black.
Silent without force.

It touched me.
It marked me.
But it was never truly mine.

I leave it there.
Without a mouth.
Without a future.
Without a fight.

Not mine to keep.
Not mine to marry.

What came in wounded
will not leave through me.